


Without Words

by Ambrosia29



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Language of Flowers, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia29/pseuds/Ambrosia29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth is working at Fluer de Fordham, a well-to-do florist shop, while studying in the city. When an angry Daryl walks in and asks for help with an insulting bouquet for an ex-lover, neither could have guessed where it would take them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Words

She looked at the rose wistfully, a blush surely coloring her cheeks at the bright red like a dollop of blood in the pale shades of the room. The walls were white and striped with silver vines, wood paneling of dark ebony lending a cozy feel to that corner of the wide room. The floor was of a wood so pale it appeared to be near white and glistened in the light from the windows, polished to a keen shine and draped with rugs in rich green and black with gold and silver floral patterns in the walkways between display tables, before the door and in front of the register.

The walls were lined with shelves, displaying a large collection of beautiful glass and porcelain vases in shades varying from pale pink to deep blue, plain to ornately decorative. The colors were prized by the owner, her Father’s friend Otis, who took great pains to procure the best quality for the shop. Though he owned it, it was his wife Patricia who truly ran the place. It was her pride and joy and she was his in turn.

She was fortunate to be here, working as she was. While not many young women in her station worked, she wanted to earn her keep during her tenure in their home. She remembered the days when she’d tilled the fields with the rest of her family. Her father, Herschel Greene had been fortunate to earn enough to expand their plantation and send her to the city to live and be educated. But she well knew, her father’s hopes were far from educational.

The floral displays finished, she fingered a few of the soft buds, remembering the feel of the petals against her cheek as she’d brought in several bundles from the delivery in the back. The silky petals felt as divine as they did because it was sinful, but could it be, really?

Would God create such beauty upon this earth if it were not good?

Beth glanced once again at the red rose, valiant in its hue across the room. She’d dared to place it there, a refugee not meant for the pale peaches and whites Patricia was wont to put on display. It had tumbled out from the center of a mass of pink blooms she’d retrieved earlier in the morning, a stray where it didn’t belong.

Patricia herself was out visiting her husband for lunch and after was scheduled a visit to their suppliers and one of their patrons, inquiring after the arrangements to be made for an expensive wedding. She anticipated a bustling end of the month, imagining her bonus with a feeling of giddy delight.

She smoothed a lock of hair back from her face, the blonde curls often escaping the coif she hadn’t yet mastered. Her dress was of black and green, the uniform Patricia insisted she wear upon hiring her to the shop. It was beautiful, like the rest of the place and while she found it pleasant, she looked forward to a change in uniform.

The door opened, the tones of a small bell alerting her to the presence of a customer. Thinking she might have done better to remove the red rose from its display before someone had seen it, she whirled to face the customer and her breath caught at the sight of him, heart pounding.

A fearsome man strode purposefully into the shop, blue eyes sharp beneath the angle of his brow, a piercing blue that nearly burned with an angry flame. His suit was brown over a white collared shirt, a tie so old it had turned a pale red, blotched with the brighter shade it originally displayed like speckled sunlight. Beneath his hat of the same brown, his eyes flashed, contrasted by the red hue, making them appear so vibrant they looked like flecks of sky. She felt tethered, pierced to the spot by his gaze until he loomed before her, blessedly separated by the counter. He raised his fist and dropped a handful of coins she didn’t look at, so captivated was she by his face as he glared at her.

“How do I tell someone they’re ‘a _bloody_ gammy coopered Judy,’” he growled, “with flowers?” The resentment at the bitten-off end of the sentence was unmistakable.

She blinked, trying to comprehend his question. “Excuse me, sir?”

His eyes narrowed on her. “I’m here to buy some _blasted_ flowers, girl, you sell them here, don’t you?”

Cheeks reddening, she held herself higher, squaring her shoulders as she made a mask of her face and said with far more heat than she would have allowed if Patricia had been present, “Address me with respect or be off. Clean up your language this instant; I’ll have none of your language in here! Or perhaps you have _more_ need to purchase a lesson in _manners_?”

He sucked in a breath, leaning back on his heels and catching his balance with fists resting on the counter’s edge, tension evident in the way his shoulders shifted, the material on his arms grew taut. He pursed his lips and the sullen glare drew back from his face though his eyes were left to smolder at her.

“You _ladies_ ,” he said tightly, “send messages, right? With _flowers_?”

She learnt this, read of it in the books her mother and tutors had provided she and her sister. It had so far, proven an amusing way to pass the time, reviewing such facts about the French aristocracy and added spice to the customer’s orders on special occasions.

“Yes,” her tone cautious, drawing out the vowel as she regarded him guardedly.

“I mean to insult someone.”

“I’ve gathered as much, sir; you’ve done an excellent job of it thus far.”

The hoods of his eyes fell to half-mast and he gifted her with a dry stare. She met it with her own stern expression and he relented, sighing heavily, bringing up a hand to roughly rub the scruff on his chin and jaw. He looked at the ground and pressed fingers into his temples until they were white. Lifting off his hat and setting it upon the counter, he took in a deep breath, finally looking up at her. The fire had gone from his face and hidden beneath a careful veneer of politeness.

“Sorry, Miss. I know this is irregular and I’m asking your help. My…tantrum…ain’t for you. Please.”

She regarded him for a long moment. His eyes had shifted upon utterance of the last word. Shifted. She’d seen them hard and fiery when he’d entered, bland and shuttered and now? They looked out at her from beneath his unruly hair and he looked for a moment like a boy pleading for help. It touched her, broke through her irritation at his manner toward her.

“Will you help me?” he asked softly.

She glanced down at the coins he’d unceremoniously dropped; eyes widening to find them unaccountably considerable give his attire. She glanced at the door and the clock. It would surely be another hour before Patricia returned and the customers would be slow, if any appeared at all. The shop was often quiet in these hours, which was why Patricia had deemed it safe to leave her alone in the shop most days. Usually she would study. But today? She had found something more interesting to do.

“What exactly do you need?”

“I don’t know. I mean to send a message. Something subtle, something not everyone will understand. It won’t be expected, that’s for sure.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“She knows I’m buggered with things like this.”

“Oh.” She glances again at the coins and finds herself staring down at his hands as they gather them up again one by one. His nails are blunt, a layer of dirt still clinging to their edges although effort had been made to wash them because his hands were otherwise clean. The fingers were long and strangely elegant in their tapering, piano-fingers she’d remembered her Mother saying about fingers like that. They swept up to broad palms, square shaped and well-muscled. They looked rough, a small scab marring a knuckle and a circular scar in the fleshy area between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. They slow in motion as they pick up the last of the coins, gathering them in his palms and shifting to the right hand.

Slowly it extended toward her and she blushed when she looked up and found his eyes affixed to her, to have been caught staring. Hurriedly, she took the coins and placed them beside the register.

“So,” she looked around the shop, anywhere but directly at him, “An insult, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“What exactly happened, if I may ask?” He opened his mouth but closed it again. “It might help me figure out what you’d like to say. There is much nuance of meaning in flower-missives.”

The silence stretched while he considered.

“She left me.” Beth blinked, tilting her head in gentle reproach and kept her peace. Slowly, as if against his will she drew the words from him with her kind eyes. “It was more than that; I left for a while, to make something of myself. Went out west on the railroad.”

“How long have you been away?”

“’Bout a year. Learned to read and write, for her.”

“And she returned your missives?”

He nodded slowly, whispered, “First thing I did, s’ go to see her, straight from the train station. Went through hell out there,” his voice broke and he paused. She stayed silent, concerned for him while he composed himself. He took a breath and continued, “I get back and she’s engaged to be married. Said I was a fool to leave her.”

“Thing is, she’s the _reason_ I left. She told me…if I ‘made a man’ outta myself; found a way to care for her proper, she’d be my wife. That her father’d listen to her and give us his blessing.”

“She’d played me for a fool. Just been told by my brother she’d been engaged the entire time I’d courted her.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked up at her through the fringe of his hair, eyes widening slightly and there he was again, the boy looking out of the man’s eyes. It only lasted a moment before the man was back, though the fire of anger had significantly diminished.

“So, you know any flowers that might let her know what I think of being played?”

The corner of her mouth quirked and she walked around the counter to the displays. “I might have something.” She walked to the back, gesturing for him to follow. “We don’t usually keep these in the front; they tend to keep customers of means away, thinking we’re sending the wrong message. But we do keep the less polite flowers for when highborn ladies have a falling-out or someone is,” she glances at him significantly, “angry.”

He had the decency to blush, lifting a hand to absently nibble on a thumbnail as he turned away briefly.

“So, you want to call her a,” she blushed slightly, asking him to repeat such unsavory words, “what did you call her?”

He looked at his feet and coughed, “Called her a ‘gammy coopered Judy.’” Beth looked at him with wide innocent eyes, uncomprehending. “Basically called her a lying, useless, pro-” he coughed again and looked away with a deeper blush as he caught himself. “A, ah – Ladybird?” She blinked, brows drawing together. “Um…Woman of the Evening?” He met her eyes then in a glance of significance and her cooled cheeks flushed with heat.

“Oh,” she glanced away at the doorway leading to the shop proper, thinking of the red rose she’d left there to shine so illicitly. “I hadn’t heard it in such…language before.”

“I don’t expect you hear that kind of talk much at all.”

“Never, actually. Here,” she reached for a spray of pale colored blooms, plucking out one and handing it to him, “this is meadowsweet, which implies uselessness.”

He eyed the flower dubiously, lifting it to his nose with caution. “I’ll have to take you at your word, girl.”

She offered a small smile. “I’m Miss Greene.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Greene.” He offered a hand and she looked at it with another blush and didn’t move to take it. After a moment’s awkward hesitation, he withdrew the hand and scratched his scruff. “Didn’t mean to offend, Miss.”

“Oh! I – no. My apologies, Sir. I’m…unaccustomed to such…casual gesture.” She offered her hand with a confidence she didn’t feel, disarming smile firmly in place. Her heart beat rapidly, the thought of touching those hands making her heart feel as if it might glow. She’d never touched an acquaintance before.

 

 

“Things ain’t so formal, out West.” He took in her smile and the blush and took her hand. As his palm slipped along hers, he couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was...how delicate the bones of her fingers felt along the back of his rough palm. Her hand fit easily into his, as though he could close his hand and keep hers trapped inside his fist, if he wanted to. He watched the pink of her cheeks deepen and noted the firm grasp she returned, careful not to overpower her and unexpectedly pleased to find he needn’t worry over it; her grip was firm. “I’m Daryl. Dixon.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dixon.” She turned her attention back to the rows and baskets filled to the brim and overflowing with flowers of so many varieties and shades his eyes near-hurt to look at them all. As he released her hand he swallowed; her fingers seemed to linger as she withdrew, sending a tingling rush up his arm to set his heart racing as those delicate fingertips brushed his palm.  He absently rolled his fingers into a fist, trying to dismiss the feeling.

“And here we have,” she continued, gathering more stems and blooms of varying shades, an odd leafy branch with spiny pods, “Clot-bur for rudeness, Scarlet Auricula,” here she took up a handful of flowers with wide red edges surrounding a round of white with a yellow center, “for animosity, rue, ryegrass and musk-rose for a crown, if you like.” She smiled mischievously. “Crowns and wreaths are for a ‘Reward of Virtue’ which is why they’re given with prizes and the like. If we make one of dried white musk-rose, ryegrass and rue, it’ll certainly be insulting and appropriate for what she’s put you through.”

“But what would it say?” Her smile was infectious, as was her enthusiasm but he was still in the dark as to her meaning.

“That her virtues aren’t virtues at all: rue is for disdain, ryegrass for a ‘changeable disposition’ and musk-rose means ‘capricious – changeable – beauty.’ Its meaning would have irony in this case, especially dried: dried white roses mean ‘transient impressions’. Evening primrose for ‘inconstancy’ and perhaps white cherry for deception. And Dodder,” she bent and retrieved another bloom and straightened, “For baseness. It’s not exactly what you wanted but…what do you think?”

He took in the flowers, thinking them fairly pretty and couldn’t imagine why people would attach such awful significances to them. She held the blooms in her arms, against her slight chest and he found his eyes wandering from the blooms to her exposed collarbones, the frame of her shoulders and the slope of her neck, sliding up to her eyes and fighting another blush when he met hers again to be caught staring.

When he’d entered the shop, furious and heartbroken and more than ready to pay insult to the highborn woman who’d so betrayed and embarrassed him, he hadn’t taken the time to see past Miss Greene’s sparking eyes.

Those eyes, brought out by the cool tones seen in the blooms surrounding her in the shadowy interior, weren’t fire now so much as patience and wide-eyed curiosity. There was still a fait blush of color to her cheeks and he found himself idly wondering if it was her creamy skin’s natural tone, or if perhaps she might turn brighter shades give the proper motivation.

He flicked his eyes firmly back to the flowers in her arms, huffing softly to himself. _Not now, Dixon,_ he thought _._ _You’re bloods up from so much turmoil and it’s easier to be gegging for it than angry and she’s pretty, sure, but she’s a flashy little twist, a Lady, not some tail_.

Turning from her, he ran his hand once more over his face, regretting bitterly the last time he’d dabbed it up. It had been a year and while he’d abstained from women on the Rail, pleading a faith in God he’d spent in worshipping at the altar of his Lady’s memory betwixt his fingers and palm instead of betwixt the legs of whomever might have him for a night like his brother. Just because she was pretty and smiled at him and had an engaging spirit didn’t mean –

“They’re fine,” he heard himself say, anything to stop the track of his thoughts from getting any more intimate with the lovely Miss Greene.

She nodded at him, uncertainly drawn brows smoothing as she smiled brightly. To his surprise she moved toward him purposefully in three strides, her heels clicking smartly against the floor, marking out the seconds like his heartbeat. Her eyes weren’t on him, however, but behind him. She leaned close but passed him to a small door, opening it, to his relief. The fresh scent of the flowers and green growth teased at his senses, as did something else, dense and sweet beneath it. A warm scent.

Swallowing, he realized it must be her.

She pushed past him into the closet, reaching up toward a shelf in the dark interior. He watched for a few moments before it became apparent she couldn’t reach whatever-it-was and he stepped into the doorway with her, peering into the dim shelves.

She was reaching for a set of neatly-stacked objects that curved past even his greater vantage. Miss Greene glanced about for something on the floor, likely a stool but he murmured, “Here, let me,” and reached.

Somewhat inappropriately he realized belatedly, because the small space meant he was nearly leaning into her side, his torso brushing her shoulder as he pivoted to extend his arm nearly alongside hers. With the soft press of her skirt and sleeve against him, he realized yet again how very small she was.

Her bodice curved beautifully at the waist. He couldn’t see it now, but he had when they’d come back here and he could feel it brushing his side through his jacket. Daryl could feel her like a line of warmth from his wrist, down his reaching arm and over his heart, down his abdomen to his hip. He looked up into the shelf, grateful for the shadows to cover his flush and bit his lip in hope she didn’t assume he was trying to get fresh with her.

It occurred to him she was a young woman, alone in the shop with a strange man. He hadn’t thought of the implications for them both, her particularly should they be discovered, but it was hardly any matter out west. She ran a shop. If she were left alone for a short length of time no one made fuss, especially since most shop-keeps had a gun somewhere beside the counter and half the women he’d met out there had known how to use one. Rules of polite society did apply, of course. But the impracticality it occasionally created was quietly overlooked in favor of function.

But she was here, on the east coast where rules were still applied in polite society, a society he’d inexplicably found himself upon the fringes of since his return. Her slender form, so casually and innocently pressed to his large one, would be cause for all sort of harmful gossip should it be known.

Just as he grasped his prize and stepped away from her, his murmured apology was drowned out by the ringing of a bell. Someone had entered the shop.

Miss Greene’s eyes widened and in the dim lighting from the outside her eyes flashed a tumult of emotions, most easily read as a kind of soft horror. Eyes stricken, she took in a breath and stepped into him, pushing him back into the closet, squeezing in beside him and closing the door softly behind her.

Bewilderment contorted his features and he opened his mouth to ask what the bloody hell she was doing when her voice came in soft tones he had to remain quiet to hear.

“I’m sorry; I can’t be seen alone with you.”

He blinked a couple times, eyes adjusting to the deeper darkness. It wasn’t dark, not really, the light from beneath the door casting her face in softer shadows, making pools out of her eyes. Her breath eased out of her petal lips and brushed his cheek, her smaller hand resting on his shoulder.

“And being found in a closet with a man will lessen your embarrassment?”

“I panicked.”

“Really, girl?” he said wryly, “I couldn’t tell.”

Her eyes rolled to the heavens and she huffed in exasperation. A feminine voice called out from outside, still from the front of the shop and he stopped Miss Greene’s retort with fingertips to her lips, tilting his ear toward the door to listen better.

“Hello? Mrs. Fordham? Miss Greene?”

Yes, the customer was indeed still at the front.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “If you go now, you can see to her and no one will be the wiser if I stay hidden.” Her head turned so her eyes met his, large orbs shining with gratitude. The movement brushed her lips across his fingertips and he pulled them back as though burned. “Is there a back entrance? A way out, from here?” She nodded.

“Git goin’ girl, I’ll slip out and come back around front.” She nodded again and stepped back away from him, a hand sliding along the door’s surface to the knob. Paused before opening it. Her eyes slid over his face as though taking it in.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“S’nothing. Just trying to protect a sweet girl’s reputation.” She smiled and looked at the floor, turning the knob and backing out with the turn of the door. It was about halfway open when he caught an answering click as of another door, a much closer door, opening. Swiftly he slid an arm around her, pulling her against him and silently sliding the door closed once more. She let out a squeak he’d write away as endearing later.

“What is all of this?” asked a curious voice. Close; in the room just beyond the closet door.

“Mrs. Fordham,” called the voice from the front, “is that you?”

“Yes,” the lady called, followed by the steady sound of Mrs. Fordham’s shoes clacking along the floor to the front. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mrs. Fordham, I was beginning to wonder…”

He stopped paying attention when it occurred to him suddenly that Miss Greene was still pressed to his chest. His arm was around her waist, so small he had spanned her back with the one arm, fingers curled slightly where his palm rested between her shoulder blades. Unconsciously, he’d turned his body to shield hers from the door, protectively trapping her in the closet with him.

Their eyes met, wandered over one another’s faces a moment and he released her slowly. His eyes moving over her face, anywhere but upon hers but she let them wander slowly to his own until they met. Caught. Absently, he turned so she could slip out past him and it was a heavy thing, watching her slip backwards out that closet door.

Her eyes never left his, a bird mesmerized by a snake, watching the hawk’s flight, waiting for it to strike.

But she wasn’t afraid.

He listened at the door, closed once more, as her footsteps receded to the front of the shop. “I’m sorry,” he heard her say, “I was in the water-closet. It’s good to see you back, Patricia.”

“My dear, are you all right? You look flushed.”

“I seem to be feeling poorly today.”

“Oh, dear, are you ill?” The sound of a few steps and a pause in their conversation left him imagining a cool hand on her warm brow and he shook himself.

_I need to get out of here._

He slipped out of the closet in silence while the women offered their concern to the girl and quietly searched, finally finding the back door hidden by a short hallway at the back of the room. Miss Greene’s virtue and reputation intact, he let himself out.

The alleyway was reasonably clean as alleys go, though narrow. The bins to the side of the door held old odd bits of broken vases and heaps of discarded flowers. He realized, too late that he’d left his hat within the shop itself and was of a mind to slip back in and retrieve it but the risk was too much.

Miss Greene would be kept from embarrassment and further awkward questions, so he walked around the busy street to the front of the shop, taking time to admire the glass front which displayed the profusion of flowers within. He’d barely taken the time for it when he’d first entered, his mind occupied with bleak heartache. The front was largely made of glass, with an ornate door whose asymmetrical shapes were organically rounded instead of the usual boxed panels, echoed in the framework of the glass above and around the door itself. The words “Fleur de Fordham” were painted upon the glass in black and gold. He found himself admitting, albeit reluctantly, that it was beautiful.

He’d lost his taste for such frivolities a long time ago, denying himself even thoughts for what had so long been out of reach. How odd, to suddenly find oneself in a position where he could now have much he’d coveted when so young.

A well-kept home, warm in the winter and filled with scents of good food. Food to be shared, with family, with friends. To have clothes that weren’t stained with another’s filth, gotten second-hand or government-issued uniform. Something that might fit properly. Something that might be admired.

He ducked his head and went inside, leaving such thoughts on the curb with the bitterness which followed them.

That it was naught without a heart, left in bed with a woman so cold he’d not known of its freezing until she’d given it back covered with frost.

The bell rang again and he looked around.

“May I help you, sir?” A woman with blue eyes and curling blonde hair kept back, wearing a high-necked dress of plain green, skirts to the floor and long-sleeved approached him. Smoothing invisible wrinkles from her white apron, she left Miss Greene’s side walked around a display of flowers to stand before him.

“Um. Yes,” he began; resolute to appear casual when an image of Miss Greene’s eyes in the dark flashed thorough his mind, “I’m here for some flowers.” As if it weren’t obvious, standing in a florist shop.

“Well then,” she said smartly, “You’re in the right place. What’s the occasion?”

“A matter of…discretion, Ma’am.” There was a pregnant pause as all three women considered his words. Mrs. Fordham looked at him with sharp, probing eyes for a moment, hidden behind a polite veneer. The other customer was more open in her frank look of quizzical detestation and Miss Greene…was trying to tell him something with her eyes. She arched a silent brow and carefully adjusted the angle of her head, toward the back where they’d just been hiding.

Refusing to give in to the judgmental glances of both of women, he sighed. “It is a parting gift,” he said in quieter, impersonal tones, “for a woman I ain’t courting any longer.”

“And…what shall we arrange for you, sir?”

“A crown, if you may and bouquet.”

“Will we be making them with yellow and purple forget-me-not, perhaps with some white heather, sir?”

He had no idea what those might mean but he pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, ma’am, I have something different in mind. For the vase, I’d like meadowsweet. And the crown…if you could make it of a combination of rye-grass, clot-burr, white cherry, dodder and…scarlet,” he glanced away and chewed his thumbnail, trying to remember, snapping his fingers when it came to him, “scarlet auricula. If you have them.”

As he’d spoken Mrs. Fordham’s eyes went speculative and then distant behind her pleasant veneer. “An unpleasant parting, I take it?” He glanced at the lingering woman, who promptly looked away and began moving slowly through the displays of flowers, pretending indifference with averted eyes. But he saw, her head was tilted such to catch his response, if her hearing were sharp enough.

“Yes ma’am,” his voice tight but resolute, “it was. Do you have what I’m seeking?”

“I believe so. Bethany, would you check in the back for me while I assist Mrs. Benning?” She gestured for the girl, who promptly nodded and executed a turn and disappeared. “Please, feel free to browse about the shop while my assistant gathers your request, or I could get you some tea?”

“No, thank you,” he said absently, already wandering the room with his eyes, “I’ll see to myself.” The woman turned and began attending the obviously well-to-do customer, though in lower tones than she’d used when speaking to him. He brushed it off, not deigning to listen to their conversation although he caught several rude glances in his direction.

It was what he deserved, he supposed, attired the way he was. He might have been served better to have worn his uniform, but he didn’t fancy the looks the grey would have garnered. He’d fought alongside his brother, surely, but the southern loss had made its appearance a poor idea along with the fit; it had become too tight in the shoulders.

He perused the store as suggested, waiting for Miss Bethany Greene and found himself looking forward to her assistance. The pale walls had been nearly hidden from the outside, the rugs and even the chaise he’d found in a corner of the room but his eyes took in the flowers.

Only once had he seen so many but they’d grown wild in a field the army had been passing on a march. They’d been lovely, though he’d not known what they were. Tall stalks that ended in purple petals, lower scrubby-looking things producing a riot of soft pink and arching, delicate strands that ended in bright yellow. He recognized one from that day, the purple. A small sign beneath the wide-mouthed vessel containing them declared the name; purple columbine.

He reached out; gently brushed a small bloom with a thumb and something caught his eye, a flash of red amidst the white on the other side of him. He turned and found the flowers here had been arranged by color, nearer to the window. But amongst the pale beauties there stood a lonely contender, a rose of such a deep red it could have been a spot of blood.

Thinking perhaps that it had been placed by mistake, he gathered the stem, gently pulling it from the collection without disturbing the others. It hadn’t quite bloomed yet, though it had begun to do so, only just parting to display all of the intricate folds of its inner petals. He glanced around the room; Mrs. Fordham and her customer were occupied on the other side. Safe from judgement he lifted the rose to his face and inhaled.

The scent was soft, barely there but it offered a hint of sweet and he could easily imagine what it might be like when fully opened. He lowered the stem and felt a tugging in his face, realizing with a start that he was smiling.

“Mr. Dixon?”

His eyes darted up in surprise, feeling like a caught rabbit in a snare. Miss Greene was standing at the end of the row he was in, flanked by white and pink roses on either side. Noted how the shades brought out the blush tones in her fair skin. Her frame was petite but he’d known that, remembered feeling the delicate bones of her fingers in his, the gentle press of her beside him in the silent dark, but hadn’t noticed before how pleasing the swirl of her skirt as she turned, the slim outline of her waist beneath the apron she now wore. Already it had some smudges of green from the plants.

“Your order is almost ready, Mr. Dixon.” She smiled gently before she turned and he followed as expected, feeling the slightest catch in his breath at the thought that there was secrecy in her smile just for him.

Arriving at the front counter, he recognized the small pile of flowers she’d laid there, including the frame for the crown and an ornate vase of porcelain in black and silver. Beside them, he recognized his hat. He caught her eye when he retrieved it, sharing a secret smile this time, and moved to put it on.

A gentle pressure prevented him from lifting it fully. Her hand was on top of it, a small blush on her cheeks. “It’s not polite, indoors.”

“Oh. Right. And the flowers?” He looked at the small piles, trying to reconcile the blooms to the names she’d given them before.

“I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to lay them out.” She nodded between the vase and the crown’s frame. “Which should go where?”

He lifted his hand and gave it an uncertain flick at the plants. “You’d probably know what’s best.”

She nodded, keeping her eyes cast down as she worked, weaving the long strands of grass, the spiny plant and much of the white and yellow flowers with the scarlet auricula together. When she set it down, it was indeed a beautiful arrangement and he would have thought so, if he weren’t aware of its meaning.

For the vase she selected the remaining blooms, whispering their names as she worked, “Meadowsweet, Japanese rose…”she looked up at him. “The dried white roses, would you be able to do without them?” He nodded. “Then we’re done.”

“You didn’t get them here,” Mrs. Fordham’s voice at his elbow was stern, low and whispering.

He nodded his assent, flicking his eyes to Miss Greene, catching hers. “You have my discretion, Ma’am.”

While settling the account with Mrs. Fordham he realized he was still carrying the red rose in his fingers and bought it, too. He lifted it, hefting its slight weight in his palm and toyed with the idea of buying a vase for it as he meandered through the stacks of flowers toward the front. The flowers were under his left arm, a gentle weight belying the gravity of their purpose.

“You bought the rose.” The soft remark floated to his ears from his right side. He glanced up, seeing Miss Greene brushing a vase with a white cloth. He nodded and she smiled softly. “I wanted to thank you,” her voice dropped to the barest whisper, hardly a breath, “for _your_ discretion.”

Daryl nodded at her. “Don’t mention it. And thank you, for your help. I’d have been lost in here without you.” He held the rose out to her and she blinked at him, eyes even larger with surprise. “Please, consider it a ‘thank you’ gift. I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.”

She reached up and grasped the stem just above his fingers and - there it was, that tightness in his chest when their eyes met. His mouth went dry and heart pounded and he wanted nothing more than to drown in those deep blue pools. He extricated his fingers from the stem slowly, brushing the backs of his fingers against hers as he pulled away.

The violence in his chest mingled uncomfortably with the memory of when he’d first felt this way; he’d been working in the factory, making sure none of the workers slipped and injured themselves or misused the machinery. A rustle of skirts reached his ears and a small gasp of fright. He’d turned in time to catch the young woman making her way along the scaffolding towards the office. She looked out-of-place in her fine dress and hat, eyes a pale blue that widened with surprise. He’d pulled her to safety and gruffly admonished her for walking this way unaccompanied in such inappropriate attire for the factory.

He shook himself from the memory and took in Miss Greene’s wide eyes and pink cheeks and stepped away, panic tightening his throat and making his heart beat faster. He executed a swift nod and turned away from the trap she presented and fairly left the shop in nearly the same agitation he’d first entered in, leaving a bewildered young woman in his wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following two prompts
> 
> "Person A owns a flower shop and person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says “How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flower?”"
> 
> "Lots of different scenarios where Daryl realizes just how small and petite Beth is compared to him."
> 
> Fun thing: the chapters will be the names of flowers. And yes, they have to do with the chapters. Maidenhair Fern denotes secrecy and discretion, marjoram flower for blushing (which there were amazing amounts of omg!) and allspice flower for compassion.


End file.
